


without wings (he cannot grip the air)

by miikkaa_xx



Category: Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Human Mjolnir, M/M, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-06
Updated: 2013-06-06
Packaged: 2017-12-14 04:25:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/832719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/pseuds/miikkaa_xx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off <a href="http://umakoo.tumblr.com/">umakoo</a>'s stunning human!Mjolnir art <a href="http://alighterwithlove.tumblr.com/post/52332718032/umakoo-mjolnir-human-mjolnir-for">here</a>.</p><p>Post-Avengers. For all that he has done to her master, Loki shouldn't have been surprised when Mjolnir visits him in prison.</p>
            </blockquote>





	without wings (he cannot grip the air)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [umakoo (Sikuriina)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=umakoo+%28Sikuriina%29).



> aka, [Nora](http://umakoo.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  **wanings:** humanoid!Mjolnir, implied Loki/Thor, explicit sex, and a walk through Loki's psyche.

-

Those who are worthy – 

– _worthy_ –

-

What is worthy, murmurs Loki into the air, tracing patterns in his breath as sits in the cold of his cell in Asgard. Why is he not worthy? Who has chosen worthiness? What is its quantifiable existence and who gives his brother the superiority of being worthy, arrogant golden prince that he is – 

-

Mjolnir sits not in Thor’s room. 

She stands – a proud, alien being – before Loki’s cell, golden eyes glittering, her skin as silver as the metal she was forged from. 

‘I knew something was different about you,’ says Loki to her, eyeing her perfect, naked form through the prison bars. ‘When Thor fell on Midgard, you came to him, unbidden. You could not have done that before.’ 

Mjolnir sneers at him, her dark lips curling upwards as she exposes her sharp, white teeth. Her steps towards him are predatory – she is not pleased. 

‘Odin’s magics fused with your magics,’ laughs Loki, ‘I would know, I have always known.’ 

A hand curls around one of the bars of his cell, her nails glittering gold, before she bends it completely apart and steps inside. Loki is sitting across from her, his back pressed against the wall, hands empty and open in his lap as he tilts his head to see her leather-coloured hair spill over her shoulders. 

‘You have found consciousness. No, you were always conscious.’ 

Her ankles and wrists have patterns that extend up her skin, following the runes that were on her side, slip-sliding around her body. He has seen them carved with the utmost care when she was forged within the pits of Svartalfheimer and they look just as lovely on her sleek skin. 

‘You have found a form, then.’ 

-

Mjolnir remembers Odin’s seidr getting between her and her master. She remembers trying to fight him, get away from it, unable to prevent it from sneaking its dark tendrils around her and press up intimately in all the spaces she did not want it. 

She remembers this also: that she conformed and obeyed and then _owned_. She felt Thor’s life flicker beyond the horizon and struggled against the chains of Odin’s magic, screamed _worthiness_ with all her might upon the spell until she was flying through the air, slamming into the dirt and dust beside Thor and feeling his calloused hand upon her handle, thrumming of _home home home_ – 

-

Loki sees her in all her new formed glory and feels something like jealousy and anger and desire in his gut flare – creeping into his lungs and snapping from this tongue: 

‘Did you come to hurt me, Mjolnir? Use your new-found form to punish me for Thor will forever be blinded by his misplaced love for me?’ Loki is mocking now, mouth twisted into a sneer, and Mjolnir laughs cruelly back at him – her voice the sound of rolling thunder – before she lifts her foot and slams it against the wall next to his head. 

The echoes of her power shake through his cell and he is too surprised by her swiftness to truly take in the eyeful of her cunt now exposed before him. He takes a breath and then laughs in her face. 

‘You may hurt me as you wish, but Thor will still love me, Thor will still let me do as I please and hurt him as I please.’ 

She hums – the sound a patter of rain – as if to say, ‘so?’ and crouches before him, her hand reaching out, touching his cheek, chilling him to the point where he jerks back from the touch and realizes she has dissipated his Aesir glamour to expose his Jotun form. 

‘Don’t – ’ he starts, but she presses her palm over his blue lips and laughs. He feels disgust and shame well up inside of him, feeling exposed in all the wrong ways and Loki lashes out, grabbing at her arms and trying to push her away – 

-

There was never a point where Loki could lift Mjolnir, nor push her, nor disturb her. He could not knock her over or slide her across the smooth tile floor of Thor’s bedroom, nor hurt her though he had often rained down small fireballs just to see the effect. 

Yet, he could hear her, in his mind, her song echoing in his mind, intertwining with his seidr, letting him know that she could feel him, she knew him, always had. Though their relationship was never physical – not like Thor and her – Loki could claim for intimacy and understanding. At least he wished it so. 

-

He’s pressed against the wall and he feels his skull scrape against the wall behind him as she arches his head, exposing his neck, hand on his throat. No matter what Loki does, his kicks, punches, scratches – they all fall over her perfect, smooth, silver skin without leaving a mark or moving her. 

He feels helpless – a horrible, disgusting feeling under his skin, and he can see Mjolnir’s amusement glitter in her yellow eyes. She leans back on her haunches and slides her free hand down his chest to his abdomen, cupping his flaccid cock under his trousers. 

‘No,’ he wants to say, ‘not like this, no,’ but she works his breeches open and curls her cool, smooth hand around his cock and tugs at it. 

-

What are the semantics of a god worshipping another deity? 

What is Loki’s desire for a weapon, for power over nature, for a mass of atoms at the tip of his fingers to crush, destroy, rule, punish, _kill_ – if nothing but a worship of a goddess, though not humanoid in form? 

_I have known you since you were taken from the forge, shaped and blown and carved and handled, graced with the ability to rend universes and destroy galaxies,_ he wants to say, _Thor will never know you as I do, Thor will never hear you and learn you and understand you as I do, Thor is nothing, Thor is not enough, Thor is not_ worthy _._

The thing about deities, learns Loki in his life, is that – as all gods are wont to do – they are fickle, cruel, capricious things and those blessed are the undeserving and those destined to be neglected are the eternally loyal. 

-

To his horror, his cock hardens under her touch because she is _Mjolnir_ and he is nothing to her, not even her master’s brother, just a sorcerer, just a mischief-maker, just a chaotic worshipper who would fall on his knees for a taste of her – 

Not like this, though, not with his cock blue and leaking clear precome as she skitters her fingers over the skin of his shaft like she can’t truly bear to touch him entirely. Her gold eyes watch his, not letting him look down to where he _feels_ her and he is torn between gratitude and disgust. 

‘You bitch,’ he growls at her instead through the grip she has on his throat, but Mjolnir is coy with him, stretching her smile wide as her hand truly takes a grasp on his cock and tugs. His breath catches in his throat and he is shivering as she jerks him off, though still not breaking eye contact with her. ‘Only you would be base enough to want this form,’ he sneers at her, a paltry defence as she strips his cock with his own precome slicking her hand. 

Instead of replying with the sound of cracking stone or crash of lightning from her throat, she leans forward, pressing chaste kisses over his cold, blue cheek, the corner of his copper-coloured eyes, up towards his brow – slow and lingering and almost _loving_ – they are kisses for lovers, friends, family, _Thor_ and she bestows them upon his skin as if he is _deserving_.

‘Stop. Stop, I hate you,’ he grits out, and his hips begin to roll in her grasp as she pulls back his foreskin and presses the pad of her thumb against the head of his cock, making him moan unwillingly into the air, the sound muffled in her hair as she presses those god-awful gentle kisses on the crook of his neck and shoulder where her hold on his throat does not touch. ‘You can’t do this, I’m not _him_ ,’ he tells her, but his words seem to consistently fall on deaf ears. 

Finally, Mjolnir pulls away, her lips parted and blue-violet in the flickering, flame-lit gloom of the cell, her colouring almost matching his, and he can’t help but feel a swell of desire and repulsion in all its equal glory in his gut. ‘Get away from me,’ he warns her though he has no power here – not while his cock is dripping in her hand, she has him pinned by the neck, and his body is trembling with sensation. 

She retreats her hand and he almost whines for her to return and make him come instead. Biting his lip, Loki wills for his Aesir glamour to return but it is no use. She has broken Odin’s magics and only she or Odin can cast them back on – he has no power in this magic-laden cell where the bars are mere accessories to the runes scratched in the perimeter of the stone where he stays chained not by shackles but crackling, electric seidr. 

He expects her to leave him leaking and flushed and blue like this – it is punishment enough by a goddess he has always desired, always adored, admired, worshipped – 

Mjolnir releases her grip on his throat – leaving Loki no longer pinned against the stone walls, but he doesn’t move, nor react. Fighting her was no use and all he has are his wits with no magic to back them up. However, she is the one who won’t succumb to him, he knows. Mjolnir is different. Mjolnir sees through him. 

Her song hums in his veins. Just as Loki can hear her, she can hear him. It leaves him flayed open, vulnerable, exposed in the worst of ways, and he stays absolutely still as she cocks her head and reads him in her gaze. 

When she finally moves, it is to grasp the edges of his tunic and pull upwards, tugging it over his head and off his arms to lie on cold floor beside him. Her hands skitter down his bare skin and he inhales sharply, stomach going concave, leaving space for her hand to curl on the hem of his trousers and tug those off too – leaving him naked and exposed and at her mercy. 

He can no longer ignore the Jotun of his skin, the feeling of being unable to feel the cold in the cell that he _knows_ is there. Instead, there is the burning, electric heat of her fingers upon his body – and the confrontation between his hated heritage and the attention of his goddess of war, of power, of magic before him, humanoid and mocking and ruthless – it threatens to make his eyes burn and tears to spill. He has never loved and hated her more than at this moment. 

‘You’re going to fuck me like this,’ he says, voice tempered by knowledge and now flat and certain. ‘You bitch.’ 

Mjolnir licks her mouth with a flicker of blue tongue, and leans forward, her lips only grazing his own. She’s asking for permission for his intimacy. Loki closes his eyes and opens willingly – it is no longer his battle. 

Loki has always been Mjolnir’s and she has always known this – and though her attentions showers over him while he is at his ugliest, he still arches, still lets her tongue curl into his mouth and lick out his want from him, tracing the ridges of his desire, the wet slide of his desperation – _I’m worthy I’m worthy I’m_ worthy _–_

Without even a gasp, she’s straddling him, the folds of her cunt brushing over the tip of his cock, spreading his precome her skin. He shivers, hands flailing upwards to grasp her hips, forgetting that he destroys all that he touches with frost – but it matters not with Mjolnir, who is forged in the death of a sunstar, blessed by the lightning even the All-Father is unable to control, the thundering heart of a universe that collapsed unto itself to lay their dying embers at her feet – he loves and wants and hates her and oh gods oh please oh oh oh – 

She sinks down onto him in a blaze of white and heat and ruthlessness, not letting him brace himself as she sheathes his cock into herself, devouring him into her soul, leaving him wanting to cry against her neck because he finally has her, finally has her attention on his inferior form. _I deserve you_ , he thinks – voice choked, _I am worthy of your love and desire_. 

Mjolnir rides his cock as effortlessly as she destroys planets and rends galaxies – her hips a push-pull rhythm like the sea as she lifts upwards and back down in a smooth movement, sheating his cock in wetness and heat – burning, desirous _heat_. Loki is gasping, trying to breathe as he feels himself be consumed, bucking into her cunt without any leverage just to never let this go. 

His fingers lay their paltry claim over her skin, clutching fast to the runes over her form, but it is nothing compared to the way she moves – rolls over him, back arched forward so her mouth can leave those fluttering kisses over his brow, nose, the curve of his cheeks. He fucks into her as much as he can to distract himself from the emotion that swells somewhere below his rib cage – his shallow, desperate thrusts that mean nothing to the sharp tilt of her torso as she rides him. 

It is easy to focus on the way her cunt consumes him, has him gasping empty words into the air as she tightens and surges upwards before slamming back down. Her rhythm is her own, but her song still echoes with the chirps of a thousand birds, sliding into Loki’s veins so his body is meeting her each time. He’s reading her, singing her, allowing her to use his body to her will – bend and break him over and over – 

_You do this to curse me_ , mourns his soul as she cants her mouth over his own and licks the seam of his lips, making him open up and letting her drink in his desperation. _This is something I will only have once – in the form I have always hated._

Mjolnir clenches – her hot cunt a vice-grip around his cock and she milks him, grinding deep and long against his sharp hipbones. Loki cries out – breath catching in his throat as he stutters and grinds back into her endless, absolute, consuming heat. 

‘I hate you,’ he breathes into her mouth as she pulls away from his lips, hips pressed tight against his as she rocks back and forth, feeling the curve of his dick and how it pulses and twitches within her. The tilt of her head and the curve of her eyebrows tell him she doesn’t believe a word he says. 

‘I do,’ he insists – but his voice is stretched out and ruined and hoarse. Mjolnir throws her head back, neck exposed, and bites her bottom lip in pleasure as she milks his dick with her cunt once more, beginning to fuck herself on his cock once more – rhythm harsher, quicker, rougher. 

The sight of her sheer pleasure, the way she uses him up for her own wants – his cock and his body and his existence merely a tool for her own play, has him crippled with something he refuses to name because it is something that hits too close to home. Something that will ruin him inside out because he only feels it for another person who is also forbidden to touch. 

The realization bites at him – has his hands sliding up her waist to grasp her breasts, brush the pads of his thumbs gently over her nipples and it is enough to have her cunt wringing his cock dry as she moans a rumble of thunder overhead. He leans forward, licks a trail between the middle of her bosom and suckles at her collarbone, his Jotun skin and its effects pushed aside to feel her shiver and clench against him once more. 

This is his for now – she might use him, destroy him, consume him up in the Ragnarok of his own making – but Loki will always have this. Have her cunt around his cock, the way her whispered bird calls and the scent of ozone wraps around his bones, grounds him with a spark of electricity that starts low at his spine, threatening to build and ignite him entirely. 

‘You’re not Thor,’ he whispers against the regal curve of her neck, the perfect arch of her breasts, the dove-like bow of her chest, ‘but you are the closest I’ll get, isn’t it?’ 

She laughs – long and low, the sound of a meteor colliding into the earth, cracking dirt and spewing calamity as it scrapes its mark down the inside of his chest, ripping him apart inside and out. His throat closes up, he has trouble breathing, but he fucks desperately, losing himself entirely in her song that thrums loud in his veins. 

Bouncing in his lap, her cunt riding his cock until he has trouble gasping for air, his hands wrapping around her waist and digging his Jotun nails into her back as her toes curl in on themselves in sheer pleasure – it takes one thrust, two thrust, three four five and she’s shivering through an orgasm entirely Loki’s making. 

Her heat drenches him, gets his cock even more slick so he slips effortlessly out and back in her cunt, and he moans – desperate, the tumultuous ocean wave of desire and hate and adoration slamming upwards past his esophagus until his eyes burn and his mouth hangs open in a silent cry when his orgasm hits him. He empties inside of her, pumping her full of everything he has – his wants and desires and nightmares and despair as she takes him in and holds his face in the crook her neck as he shivers through the aftershocks. 

Her mouth is at his sweat-damp hair, moving downwards to his temple, the corners of his eyes where she licks his tears, his cheek, the cartilage of his ear, the curve of his jaw, the bottom of his chin – all holy benedictions upon his unworthy form. 

‘This is your blessing unto me,’ he says into her skin as Jotun ice tears freeze crystals over her rune-tattoed form. ‘A taste of what I will never have.’ Especially now, with his crimes hanging over his neck, waiting to separate his head from his body at any moment, whenever Odin wills it despite the desperate calls for mercy from his brother. ‘You’re so cruel.’ 

When Mjolnir looks upon him again, her face is again that mocking, unkind smile she has always graced him with, and she leans forward, kisses him until he can’t breathe, as if to say, _and despite my cruelty you will always love me always love my master always crave for me to call you home and love you as he loves me –_

‘Leave me,’ he says in a punched out breath. Surprisingly, she obeys, standing, letting his cock slip out and drag his come down the inside of her thigh in a shock of white. However, she remains standing, unmoving, her head tilted so her hair falls over her shoulder in a waterfall of leather. ‘Please, please,’ he begs quietly, humbled and distraught, ‘leave me.’ 

When she turns with a sneer, as if a reminder that she has destroyed Loki entirely in the span of a night where men and gods have tried for centuries upon millennia, he watches her disappear down the shadowed halls of the prison chamber. 

With a shaking hand, he cleans himself up with his tunic and lies down, exhausted and naked and too flayed open to particularly care what the prison guard will find when he comes down in a few hours: wrenched open prison bars and a prisoner’s Jotun skin. 

Still, the taste of her mouth lingers on his lips, the ozone heavy in his nose, the electric tingle that glints and shivers in his veins – it is a reminder that he once had her. The memory lays burned in his psyche where only Ragnarok itself will make him forget, but still the bitterness is an ugly taste on his tongue. 

_You had me_ , Loki hears Mjolnir titter, _but you will never_ have _me as you will never have your brother, and this shall be your curse._

Loki thinks of being turned into a tree, a river, a statue, a flower, a spider – but this is still the worst punishment he can imagine, and he laughs until his throat goes raw, knowing she will hear him, hidden as she is in his brother’s rooms, wrapped up in Thor’s attention as always. 

Once morning comes, Loki calls upon his Jotun ice magic – as painful as it is under the seidr restrictions of his prison – and shapes an image of an altar with snowflakes on the stone floor; his offering to his goddess. 

-

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based off a line in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_ regarding Icarus. This story might need a follow up fic, but at the moment, I hope you enjoyed it as it is~
> 
> x-posted to [tumblr](http://alighterwithlove.tumblr.com/post/52333457506/without-wings-he-cannot-grip-the-air-nc-17-thor).


End file.
